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If he turns his head the right way--when he's not trying, and never when he's waiting--Adam can almost catch sight of the ghost he knows is trailing him. It's fanciful, ridiculous, but Adam is a haunted man. There's a shadow hiding within his shadow, a memory of a man that Adam once must have known.

The back of Adam's neck prickles. He feels like a stranger in his own skin--he's adrift, and helpless, and Adam knows that there are answers in the curve of his fist, and in the strange beat of his own heart. The past lays heavy in his bones and muscles and skin--close, so close, and never close enough.

He can almost feel memory trembling along the edges of conscious thought, sometimes. His ghost stirs, and sighs, and Adam's chest aches with the pounding of his heart.

Tell me, tell me, Adam thinks--but his ghost is no easy prey. There's no one left but Adam, and the furious rasp of his own breath.



Written for livejournal's 31_days community, with the prompt: "The past is a well-closed book."

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